


Adverse

by Xqueenie



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Hackers, Eventual Smut, Hacker Chris, Hacker vs Assassin AU, Hitman Tom, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 06:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4865927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xqueenie/pseuds/Xqueenie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris is a former blackhat-turned-government agent, and is caught up in a case involving a deceptively charming assassin-for-hire. But could there be more to the case than he first realized?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Whitehat

**Author's Note:**

> In which Queenie starts another story and hopes she can actually finish it this time.
> 
> ([please consider donating to this Gofundme for me and my girlfriend to get together](https://www.gofundme.com/ncany2jw) )
> 
> I am also now taking requests for [writing commissions!](http://xandraqueen.deviantart.com/journal/Writing-Commissions-573834778) Follow me on [tumblr](http://xandraqueen.tumblr.com) or watch me on dA to submit requests!

He could still smell it: mainly, it was the sour smell of unwashed bodies and cigarette smoke. The smell of it was awful, but once you lived in it, you learned to ignore it. There were other smells too, ones he didn’t have a name for, but he never wanted to ask what they might be. It might have made his stay there a much more unpleasant one.

_Bzztbzzt._

He could still see it, too: gray and white, everywhere. The walls were dirty white, the floors dirty gray. Beds were gray, sheets were gray, and the uniforms were gray. Faces were even grayer; some with age, some with depression, some with exhaustion or sickness, and some a combination thereof. White were the shirts of those watching over them, though “watching over them” wasn’t a good way to describe the judging, careless gazes these men had.

_Bzztbzzt._

Chris had spent three years in prison. During the first month, he figured that if he kept his head down and flew below the radar, that he could avoid fights and wait out his three years in peace. And while this plan seemed perfectly fine in concept, he barely managed to get it to work. Three years, and the only thing he had to do to pass the time was work out. Granted, since then, he developed a workout schedule that kept him rather built--

_Bzztbzzt._

What the fuck was that infernal buzzing?

Chris pushed an eye open. His lid fell closed again immediately, trying to shield his retina from the sudden invading light. He clenched his eyes closed and tried to rub the sleep from them, his body mechanically sitting him up and setting his feet on the floor.

It was his phone that was vibrating--an alarm he’d set for this morning. And just in time, too, or else he would have started having dreams about his time in prison.

When Chris was younger, he was rather stupid.  And like all stupid youths, he neglected his studies and got himself in a lot of trouble with his parents and with the school. He paid more attention to computers and how to work them than even other people at school. He barely gained his high school diploma, but that was enough for him--screw college, he didn't need to pay money for an old coot to babble on about stuff he already knew. Instead, he got a job at an electronics store and started making more and more money running internet scams. By the time anyone picked up on any of his scams, he'd dropped them, taken the money, and switched to a new computer, new accounts, new email, new everything (and, of course, he never did anything without using several proxies). But as always, and as his younger self failed to see, nothing lasts forever. He landed in jail for an especially good con, one he had been quite proud of (and cocky enough to think he could get away with it without consequence). Chris had been 25 when that happened. If he could see his younger self now, he would probably beat his own ass for that.

He was thirty-one now, and much wiser for the wear.

His original sentence was for six years, but the second half of his sentence was vacated after he helped an international intelligence agency-- to be specific, the Specialized International Defense and Intelligence Agency (or the incredibly creative acronym SIDIA)--catch a wanted criminal. He went directly from prison to working for SIDIA, and these past three years working for the agency changed him more than prison did. He made friends, finally, and took pride in every case he closed, to the point where he began to wonder why he hadn't started using his powers for good sooner. The pay was much better, and the legal risks were nonexistent.

A normal day at the office saw him sitting at the computer. On rare occasions, he would be out in the field, but he wasn't too fond of field work. Thanks to his friends within the Agency, he'd learned some basic defense over the years, but nothing fancier than learning how to load, clean, and fire a gun. His real weapons-- his favorite weapons-- were his fingertips. Sitting at any sort of computer, no matter the brand or operating system or even the hardware, Chris was positively lethal.

In real life, he was a lonely, cuddly teddy bear.

He rubbed his face, trying to pull himself back from the edge of the chasm of sleep once again. He really needed to start going to bed earlier than 3 am if he was going to continue to get up at six for a morning run. If he kept this up, his lifelong friend (the double-shot espresso) would no longer help him. But he finally pulled himself up, threw on some track pants, and got himself out on his run.

I really ought to get a dog, he thought for the billionth time when he made it back to his apartment. It really was lonely in this tiny little Manhattan apartment, and he couldn't see his family as easily. They were all in Australia, and for a good reason. Chris didn't want them all getting mixed up in this crazy life of his; the same reason he didn't date anyone. Any emotional connection could be used against him if he ever ran into an especially smart opponent, and he didn't want anyone hurt because of him. So a dog would be the best option.

He made it to work right on time, swiping his badge exactly at seven. The entrance to HQ never ceased to amaze him: a large, bronze modern art piece stood next to the window, with a glimmering sheen of water gently flowing down two sides into a circular stone fountain. According to the plaque on the side of the fountain, it was supposed to be a depiction of a Lion, but it looked like a tall, meaningless blob to Chris (but he was never much of an artisan). Windows made up two of the four walls, coming in uneven inclined planes to a peak, where they met the stone of the other two walls. Someone spent a lot of money on this building, and Chris hoped every time he saw this entrance that nothing would happen to this gorgeous work of architecture.

"Morning, Chris." Chris was snapped out of his reverie by a familiar voice. He turned, and was met with the sight of his coworker and friend, Scarlett, as she escorted a handcuffed man towards the elevators.

"Bit early for an interrogation, isn't it?" Chris asked, good-humouredly.

"Coffee is a wonderful invention. You should try it sometime," Scarlett grinned at him as she shoved her perp again to keep him in line. "Oh, and the Director mentioned he has a new case for you. Left it on your desk."

"Got it."

When Chris started working at SIDIA, usually only the senior officers got their own offices. But because of cutbacks and an unfortunate amount of downsizing, a lot of offices were freed up. Chris luckily laid claim to his own computer room, with some hardware provided by the Agency, and the rest of it he either bought and modified, or built it himself. He was very grateful to have his office, even if the space was cramped and the A/C was sometimes finicky in the summers.

The file wasn't all too thick-- maybe it was a simple case? Chris dropped his bag into its usual spot by the desk and flopped into the chair as he opened the file. His eyes skimmed over the write-up, then he groaned. A Spanish diplomat, Antonio Garcia, murdered on foreign soil. Shouldn't Interpol handle something this miniscule? I thought SIDIA handled special cases, what's so special about this?

As he continued reading, he was able to answer his own question. It wasn't so miniscule after all: this diplomat was murdered in London, nearly a month ago, during the New Year's parade. Thousands of people were out on the streets, and without warning, his head exploded over everyone within five feet of him. It caused such a commotion that allowed the killer to disappear. Interpol had investigated it, but the case was buried, when two lead detectives died of two weeks later: one from a 'heart attack' (though he was healthy as a horse and his family had no history of heart problems), and the other was shot in his sleep. Someone didn't want them investigating that murder, so Interpol had handed the case off to SIDIA.

Chris furrowed his eyebrows, then cracked his knuckles and got to work.

Hours later, he was banging his head against the desk. There was nothing. Nothing. No motive, no dirty little secrets, no possible suspects. He checked Garcia's bank accounts, nothing. He checked his email, hard drive, phone records, every internet site he ever went on, and got jack shit. He wasn't married, didn't have any kids, didn't have any affairs with prostitutes, and no fallouts with other dignitaries-- nothing that was motive enough to kill.

Phone call after phone call, email after email. Chris ended up at an outdoor cafe for lunch, glaring at his laptop and fighting a stress headache. One more time, he checked Garcia's accounts. He didn't know if it was out of hope that something might have shown up, or to reassure himself that he was completely out of leads. The only records in his bank statements were normal things such as gas and groceries, campaign expenses, and one payment every month to some charity that works to get new tech to low-budget schools. Politics, politics, politics.

After work, Chris and a few other agents went to the rec center to work out.

“This guy had to be the cleanest diplomat on the whole damn planet,” Chris was saying as he spotted a colleague, Jeremy, “You ever heard of a politician that _didn’t_ have something shady going on?”

“Nope.” Jeremy grunted as he muttered his sit-up count, “You check his financials?”

“Of course; everything for the past ten years. I’m not seeing anyone with a single motive to kill this guy. Not even an obscure one.”

“So what’s your plan?”

Chris shrugged. “Dunno. Sleep on it? There’s not much to do if I don’t have any leads.”

Jeremy exhaled and flopped back onto the mat as he finished his set. “No idea, man. Your turn.” Chris nodded and the two of them switched places.

With no leads and no idea where to start, Chris went home frustrated and irritable. He couldn’t even sit at his computer, he was so antsy. He let it run a program to scan Garcia’s hard drive again, and went to reheat himself some dinner and watch the news.

_“The streets of New York are studded with stars tonight as the most anticipated movie of the summer, “Starchild” , finally makes its premiere at Radio City Music Hall. Our man on the ground has the live update. Ken?”_

Chris rolled his eyes as some reporter started going off about the ‘who’s who’ of the red carpet turnout for that event. How could anyone stand that entertainment news crap? He was about to tune it out, too, but that was before he heard the shots ring out. He was on his feet in a second, eyes wide as saucers and trained on the screen as he watched a scene of horror play out: the camera was going wild, and in the few seconds before the feed cut out, Chris could swear he saw a man lying spread on the red carpet.

Coated in blood.

The anchor sat stunned for a moment, looking at someone off-camera before looking back at the lens.

 _“It appears we have an emergency on the red carpet- um-”_ it’s very clear she’s not sure at all how to react and is still thoroughly stunned. _“C-can… can we go to commercial? Oh my god--”_

As the TV switched to some advertisement for laundry detergent, Chris grabbed his phone and called Jeremy.

The other agent didn’t even bother to say hello. _“Dude, did you fucking see the news?”_

“I did. What the hell happened?” But to answer his own question, he jumped onto his laptop and pulled up every social media site he was on (which of course was all of them). “Christ, social media’s blowing up. Did someone get shot?!”

_“Yeah. Benjamin St. James.”_

“St. James,” Chris’s eyebrows furrowed as he tried to remember where he knew that name from. “As in… The English Ambassador Lawrence St. James?”

_“Well, yeah. That’s his son-- his son Benjamin got shot.”_

Chris paused for a second, scanning the message feeds, and nearly dropped the phone. “Holy shit, that’s not all. Twitter post from his wife-- Lawrence St. James was just found murdered in their Midtown brownstone.”

A flagged email popped up over his browser windows-- from work. The Director had sent all agents a message that all but read “get your asses to HQ _NOW_ ”.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Chris stumbles into a bigger shitstorm than he thought.  
> (AND ENTER LEE PACE~)

"Hemsworth, where are we on this?"

Since the murder of the British Ambassador, two days ago, Chris couldn't have gotten more than three hours of sleep. His eyes remained locked to his computer screen, trying desperately to find something- anything- any scrap of information that could lead to something else.

The top floor of SIDIA HQ had been converted into a command center; Director Jackson had his best agents working on this case. Another murder could happen at any time.

He'd been given access to the entire family's computers, and was running everything he could possibly run to get anything he could possibly get. Mrs. St. James was being very cooperative; handing over everything they needed, answering every question, doing everything they asked her to do.

Scarlett had been the one to interview her, made sure she was comfortable, and never left her side. Director Jackson had put her on security detail for Mrs. St. James, since the poor woman had all but latched onto Scarlett like a child clinging to its mother. Chris wasn't sure how to react to victims- he tried his best with people, but he ended up being a big awkward dope.

Jeremy was out canvassing more witnesses with a couple more agents, but so far, the witness approach wasn't turning up much more than Chris's was. No one saw the shooter; hell, no one saw the guy fall until his actress date screamed.

Ballistics couldn't pinpoint exactly where the bullet came from, although the forensics team hypothesized that because of the angle of the entry and exit wounds, the bullet had to have come from somewhere up above. Which meant that they were dealing with a sniper, but that was obvious.

Two murders. Both with the same M.O.: political figures murdered in public with hundreds of people around, with untraceable ballistics.

They were dealing with a pro.

Chris didn’t look up from his computer screen to answer his Director, “Nowhere close. This guy is targeting public figures that are relatively clean in the middle of crowds. He doesn’t miss.”

“He’s got a steady hand.” Jeremy put in from where he was working on putting in his witnesses’ statements, “Guy knows what he’s doing.”

“What did we get on their harddrives?” Director Jackson crossed his arms as he attempted to look over Chris’s shoulder. Chris pulled a few screenshots up to show him.

“Absolutely nothing on Garcia. I quintuple-checked his bank records, internet history, _everything_ this guy accessed on his computer. All came up clean. The only thing that got flagged from what I got off of both the St. James’ computers was an enormous cash withdrawal Benjamin made a few months ago. No way to trace it.”

“Well, now we’ve got two hits to compare,” The Director said, “Run them together.”

“I did, twice to be sure. All I could find was that both of them donated to the same foundation: Wonderful Lives Advocacy Center.” He pulled up their webpage to show them; its logo depicted a cartoon mother rabbit holding all her little baby bunnies. Pictures showed mothers and fathers and children laughing and happy-- some of them were mixed-race families with adopted kids. “It’s an adoption agency, child advocacy center, and shelter for single parents--”

“Hold on,” Jeremy leaned over to point to Chris’s screen, “does the bank statement say ‘Wonderful Life’?”

Chris nodded. “Yeah.”

“That… sounds familiar…” Jeremy began digging through some older files in his desk, mumbling something to himself. “Here!” He opened the little manilla folder and scanned the page, reading out loud, “An old charity fraud case. Donors poured tens of thousands of dollars into this phony charity-- Wonderful Life, it was called. They thought they were donating to that Wonderful Lives place, but one of the administrators was a fraud. Made off with almost a hundred thousand dollars about eight months ago; no one ever caught the guy.”

“So now someone’s killing the donors,” Director Jackson gestured at Jeremy, “Lemme see that file; we have to warn these people before they’re killed as well.” Jeremy nodded frantically and handed the list over.

As he was walking to the phone, another Agent burst into the command center. “Two more dignitaries have been shot!”

Chris groaned and held his head in his hands, calling out a muffled curse. Jeremy sighed and asked, “Who?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Claybourne, owners of the Claybourne candy company.”

Chris looked at the Director, “Donors?” The Director nodded. “Fuck.”

“Well, now we know what we’re dealing with,” Jeremy started going through his computer to print off more of the list of donors. “The guy’s going after the people that could rat him out.”

“And he’s a professional hitman to boot.” Chris sat back in his chair with a sigh, and rubbed his eyes. “But we don’t know who he is or who he’s gonna hit next. Or where.”

“Or even if it’s the same guy,” Jeremy flopped back down in his chair and picked up his phone, “our con man could’ve hired a hitman to knock those people off his list.”

Chris thought about it. Finally, an idea hit him like a ton of bricks and he snatched up his own phone. “I’ve got an idea.”

An old cellmate of his had been doing time for three counts of criminally negligent homicide; he’d been in with the mob, and had confessed to helping them plan three of their hits. In return for his testimony and his help in taking down some of the others connected to those murders (which included, Chris remembered, an Assistant District Attorney), the Prosecution lowered his charges and his sentence.

He was a snake of a man-- thin and tall, taller even than Chris. His long, nimble fingers were always moving, always fidgeting; and his posture was that of a man at ease and in complete comfort and confidence wherever he was. Along with his confident and hubristic nature, his face was charming and all but dripping with charisma-- he always seemed to be smirking, one eyebrow quirked above the other, stormy green eyes alight with mischief.

“Of all the people I thought would come to visit me,” His voice was a deep, pleasant rumble, “You were definitely not one of them. I never thought I’d see my old roomie again.”

Chris sat at the little table inside the prison visiting room, anxiety and sleep deprivation eating away at him. If he couldn’t get anything out of his old cellmate that was relevant to this case, he had nothing. He was determined not to leave here unless he had something. One lead, and he could finally let himself get some sleep. If only this guy would stop chatting.

“You look like you’ve been taking care of yourself. How’s life on the outside? Sleeping well enough in your marshmallow of a bed?”

“Not in the last few days, no.” He uttered, rubbing his exhausted eyes. “I’m on a case.”

“Oh right, they told me you were on the right side of the law now. How is it?” His slow drawl gave Chris the impression that he didn’t very much care how Chris’s life was going. But he was dancing around the very obvious question Chris knew was coming: why he was here.

“Frustrating.” Chris watched him in order to gauge his reaction. “Getting information the legal way is much harder than it used to be before I was caught. Lee, I need your help.”

The former mobster’s eyes lit up. He could smell a deal coming like a Christmas Roast. “You need a favor.”

Chris didn’t meet his eyes. If there was one thing Chris learned in prison, it was that the worst possible thing you could do, especially with an ex-con (if he even was an ex-con), was owe him something. Because when he calls in that favor, you might not like what he asks for. Chris made sure to word his next sentences carefully. “Not exactly. I just need information, and you’re the only person I know who might have it. And if not, you might know someone in here who does.”

Lee hesitated, crossing his arms. His thick eyebrows furrowed, but he kept his voice even. “Should I be speaking to you through my lawyer, Hemsworth?”

Chris shook his head. “No, no, this isn’t about the mob. Or--well… it’s not about your case, anyway.”

After another pause, Lee answered. “...I’m listening.”

From his bag, Chris took a file full of pictures of the victims and spread them out where Lee could see. Lee sat forward as Chris began to explain. “I can’t give you all the details, but we think someone ordered a hit on these people.”

Lee nodded, scanning each of the pictures slowly. “I don’t know them,” He pointed to the pictures of the Claybournes and Garcia, then picked out the two St. James victims. “But these two-- they were the ones murdered on the red carpet, right?”

Chris nodded. “The younger one was murdered on Live TV. His father was found in his bed ten minutes later. Both were shot in the head.”

“Ballistics?”

Chris chewed on his lip, uneasy with sharing so much information with his ex-cellmate. “...couldn’t trace it. After all these hits, we’re thinking it’s a sniper.”

Lee nodded, then his eyes narrowed. He mumbled something to himself, then shook his head. “No, couldn’t be.”

“Couldn’t be who?”

Lee glanced at him, then back at the picture. “They were all killed in broad daylight, right? Or in the middle of a crowded street?”

Chris sat forward, eyebrows shooting up. “You know who did this?”

Lee set the picture down and cleared his throat. “I might be digging my own grave telling you this, but… anything to help an old roomie, right?” He smirked wryly, and Chris knew he wasn’t just going to give this up out of the goodness of his heart. He didn’t have any goodness of heart. Or, not that much, at least. “But you didn’t hear this from me. Word gets out I helped you find this guy and that’ll be my head all over the street, capiche?”

Chris nodded in understanding. “Far as anyone else knows, we’re old roommates catching up.”

Lee grinned. “Atta boy.” He chuckled and shook his head, gathering the pictures back up to shove at Chris. “The guy you’re looking for doesn’t work for the mob.”

Chris gave him an unamused look. “That’s helpful, Lee. Thank you.”

“Alright, smartass,” Lee rolled his eyes, “all I know is what the guys used to talk about. An ex-MI6 agent-turned-hitman. They talked about hiring him a few times back before I turned them in, then started griping about how much he charged.”

“All the resources they had and they were complaining about the cost? How much?”

“$50k a head.”

Chris grimaced. “Jesus.”

Lee snorted a laugh. “Yeah, but his work was nothing to sneeze at. He was damn good. Interpol went after him for years but could never pin anything on him. Last I heard? He was living it up in Miami Beach.”

“Gimme a name, Lee.”

Lee looked at him for a few seconds, the smile quickly fading off his face. Chris waited, but Lee didn’t reply for a good minute or so.

“ _Lee_. I can’t look for a guy based on a legend some mobster told. Name him or I walk outta here and don’t owe you jack shit.”

Lee sighed. “Curtis Floyd.”

*          *          *

The next thing Chris knew, he was on a plane to Miami.

He’d saved all the information he could find on Curtis Floyd to a USB, and was going through it on his flight. Arrested and charged with five different murders, but never convicted. The first three lacked sufficient evidence to convict, the fourth was dropped before they even made it to trial, and on the fifth, he was acquitted. After that, there wasn’t so much as a parking ticket he’d been charged with. Even though he was only arrested for five murders, the agents that handled his case suspected that he’d committed dozens of them. He would have had to, Chris thought, or else he wouldn’t be that good at evading the police.

What Chris also found was no financial record since 1994. This guy had been living entirely off of cash for decades now, which also made him harder to pin down. Or it would have, if Chris hadn’t hacked into every realtor database in Florida and searched for Floyd or any of his known aliases.

Floyd wasn’t making an effort to hide at all. There he was, in a high-end condo right on South Beach. Paid for with his blood money, no doubt.

Chris found him on the beach, thanks to a very helpful bartender. “Yeah, Mr. Floyd’s in here pretty much every night! Likes to flirt with the younger ladies, but he’s a nice old man. Dunno how anyone could’ve thought he committed murder all those years ago.”

Like any other 60-year-old in South Beach, Floyd was laid out in a lawn chair, in board shorts and sunglasses, sipping a Pina Colada.

“Curtis Floyd?” He asked. The old man barely looked up at the tall young man standing over him (dressed in what definitely wasn’t beachwear).

“That’s me, but the only person that calls me that is my sister-in-law. Call me Curt. And you are?”

“Agent Chris Hemsworth. I’m-”

“-From some bloody law enforcement agency or another, here to try and pin more murders on me again,” Curt laughed, “Probably the ambassador’s boy that was killed on TV the other night, yeah?”

Chris wet his lips, trying to find the right way to say ‘not really but yeah’. “Not to sound prosecutive, Curt, but five people were murdered within the last three months with your exact M.O.”

“Well, then it looks like you’ve got yourself a copycat.” Floyd glanced at Chris over his sunglasses, then laid his head back down. “I’ve been here for the past six years and haven’t left this beach. Ask at the pub down the beach. I’m there every night at 5 and get home by seven.”

Chris looked down, then tried one more thing. “...is there anyone you can think of that would copy your work? Maybe to incriminate you?”

Floyd’s mouth formed a tight line, and he was silent while he was thinking. “...maybe… Only bloke I can think of that’d want to screw me over would be one of my fellow old MI-6 agents. Jonathan Bates. But he couldn’t shoot a gun for the life of him, so he’d have to hire someone with experience to do it for him, the lazy bastard.”

“Why would he want to screw you over?”

“Hell if I know. Jonathan was never the happiest young man-- I’m no psychiatrist, but he seemed a bit off his rocker if you ask me.”

Chris stuffed his hands into his pockets and paused a moment before thanking him for his time and making his way off the sand. There were two possibilities here: one, this former hitman was lying and was pushing the blame on his old partner to save his own ass. Or two, he was telling the truth and Chris had another wild goose chase to go off on, trying to find this Bates guy. He couldn’t prove or disprove either scenario until someone talked to the partner anyway. Either way, he’d have another long flight to look forward to to get back to New York.

For a moment, he stopped and just looked down the beach. The salty breeze pulled at the longer locks of his hair, making them sway this way and that. Just being here reminded Chris of home; and after the ordeals he’d been through at this point in his life, he wanted nothing more than to go back there and surf to his heart’s content. If he was being entirely honest, he actually did miss his family. His brothers, his Mum and Dad, their old dog Howie. If he could go back, he never would have left Australia in the first place.

Maybe he should call it quits. Move back to Melbourne. Open a little surf shop and snack bar and live a simple, quiet life on the beach. Maybe settle down and meet somebody. He could imagine exactly what it would look like: a little shop on the beach, with a one or two-bedroom apartment upstairs. Maybe even a loft. Running the shop during the day, going out to surf as the sun sets, and getting up to catch the first waves kissed by the pink light of morning. Snuggling into bed every night with a significant other, while a big golden sleeps in his little dog bed in the corner. Right now, that sounded like heaven.

But first, he had to solve this case.

He called Jeremy once he landed, and relayed what Floyd had said. Jeremy told him not to worry, that he and Scarlett would handle finding Bates and that Chris should get some much-needed sleep. Chris mumbled an agreement before he hung up, and wished his colleague luck.

As he entered his apartment, he almost didn’t bother shuffling to the bedroom and almost flopped onto the couch, but a manilla envelope at his feet caught his eye. He set his bag down, eyebrows furrowed, and squatted to pick it up. Someone must have slid this under his door, but why? What the hell was it?

When he opened it up and dumped the contents onto the kitchen table, his stomach dropped.

Pictures. At least a dozen glossy 8x10s, taken from a distance- and they were all of him. Coming and going from his apartment, getting coffee at the place across the street, entering the subway-- and the last location nearly made him vomit.

Because there he was, sitting at the table he’d eaten lunch at last week, with the file for this exact case open in front of him.

And drawn on the picture in red sharpie was a big heart, next to cursive handwriting that read _“You’re cute~”_.


End file.
